“Go somewhere no one can hear you. Go now. I’m going to call you back, because I don’t want to talk on this line.”
“Okay, but when you do, use this number.” I got out my burner phone and read the number out to her, then hung up and walked across the garden, to a quiet spot at the edge of the woodland where I was hidden from people and out of hearing. I waited, nerves building, for her to call, and caught it on the first ring.
“I’m alone,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you to be completely honest with me. Do you promise? Don’t hold anything back because you think it will hurt me or make me cross.”
Oh, God, I thought. What did she know? Had she found out about Dad’s involvement in the clinical trial? I braced myself to fight with her over it.
“I promise,” I said.
“Okay, listen carefully. I’m going to ask you some questions. Remember, be honest. Lives depend on it.”
“Mum—” I started.
“No!” she interrupted, so forcefully it made her cough. “We haven’t got time for feelings, and I need to give this phone back soon. First question: Were those accurate descriptions of the bookbindings?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
I hesitated. I had a bad feeling.
“Anya,” she coaxed.
“Yes, they were,” I said.
“I know those books and I know where they’re from.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Anya, I heard St. Leo’s clock chiming when we spoke the otherday. You were in Cambridge, and those bindings are from books in your father’s collection.”
“You can’t possibly know that. You only saw his collection once.”
“I might not have told you the truth about that.”
“The collection burned!”
“Did it?” she asked. “Now I’m wondering.”
My legs felt as if they might give way. I sank down and crouched against a wall.
You can’t keep secrets from me, Anya. I always know.
She broke the silence. “The clinical trial. There’s a reason I’m suddenly accepted and fully funded to join it, isn’t there? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” I said.Please, God, don’t let her refuse this.
“Let me give you some context. After my diagnosis, when I heard the prognosis for this disease, I contacted your father for the first time in over a quarter of a century. I sent him an email asking if he would help me access the best possible treatment, whatever that might be. I told him if he didn’t want to do it for me, he should do it for you, because you only had one parent. He replied promptly. Do you want to know what he said?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“He said no.”
I shut my eyes tight. The world spun around me.
“I know him better than most people. Whatever he’s up to now, he showed me who he is then. And not for the first time. So, if I’m accepted onto a clinical trial, fully funded, including travel to a posh clinic in the US, I’m pretty sure someone has struck a deal, and I’m pretty sure that person can only be you. What did he promise you, Anya? His collection? Has it survived? You must tell me.”
